


Your Words Have Never Left Me

by ZushiGirl



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Daredevil (TV) Spoilers, Fluff and Angst, Foggy Nelson & Karen Page Friendship, Gen, Original Character(s), POV Frank Castle, POV Karen Page, Physical Abuse, Post-Season/Series 02, Prequel, The Punisher (TV 2017) Spoilers, Triggers, karen is a bamf and a good reporter, prequel to Seeking An After For You
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29790345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZushiGirl/pseuds/ZushiGirl
Summary: Frank Castle chose to continue fighting his war.  He chose the life of a vigilante…so why does he still thumb through the New York Bulletin looking for any articles by Karen Page?  More importantly, why hasn’t she written anything in the past two months?  Frank is beginning to worry about her…then he finds out she’s interviewing his next target in the Mexican cartel.  Will he continue to fight his war even if Karen gets in the way?
Relationships: Frank Castle & Karen Page, Frank Castle/Karen Page, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson/Marci Stahl, Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson/Karen Page, Mitchell Ellison & Karen Page
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	1. Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot?

**Author's Note:**

> So, for those who’ve read my first fanfic, Seeking An After For You, think of this as a prequel. The idea came to me while I was working on Frank and Karen’s reunion. I really wanted to show how we got from Frank at the hospital saying “I don’t want it” to Frank choosing to take on Karen’s crusade in my first fic. If you haven’t read Seeking An After, consider this a one-shot tale full of longing and angst…and a little fluff. Either way I hope you enjoy!

“5…4…3…”

“Christ,” Frank grumbled as he passed the dingy bar with a blinking neon sign. A throng of people were spilling out of the door holding martini glasses and cheering loudly. He could make out a few college age guys wearing cheap plastic top hats covered glitter and those big goofy glasses – this time they read 2020! – while a few girls fidgeted in the cold as the adjusted their supposed flapper outfits.

“2…1…Happy New Year!”

Frank groaned inwardly. When had Hell’s Kitchen become so _hipster._ Even from across the street, he could tell the bar was trying for some sort of speakeasy vibe. He wondered how many muggings and robberies would have to take place at that corner for whoever was trying to gentrify the area to pack up and leave.

Suddenly a pang of guilt hit him. 

_Maria would have wanted to check the place out_. 

She’d loved those kinds of bars when she was in college. The least Frank could do was make sure any assholes who tried to bother a spot like that only made that mistake **once**. Still, a speakeasy with fifteen-dollar drinks was not his style. Hell, if he was going to drink to the new year, he’d rather go to Josie’s. It was dirty and the food probably had E.coli, but he could get a cold bottle of PBR for three bucks. Maybe even catch a glimpse of…

 _NO_. _Scratch that thought now_.

Frank looked down at his black combat boots. Even with a thin layer of snow on them, he could still make out a bit of dried blood on the toe of his right one. He’d been too tired to give them a good polish after the shit storm that was Last Night. He wouldn’t go to Josie’s and drag blood on the floor. He didn’t deserve to be there anyway.

He shuffled along the street debating if he should just head back to his warehouse. Last night’s run in with the cartel hadn’t been pretty. Sure, he’d gotten the job done, but it hurt. It hurt to think about the kid – a boy no more than 13 years old – that he’d sat with until EMT’s arrived. He’d ducked out as the ambulance wailed around the corner knowing full well that kid had just lost a father or an uncle thanks to him. Those cartel pricks deserved it, but _god_. It. Hurt. Happy New Year’s indeed.

Weaving his way through a crowd of partygoers milling about the sidewalk, Frank breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted his target. He stepped eagerly into the warmth of the tiny bodega. The smell of coffee brewing gave him a much-needed jolt of energy, but he hadn’t dropped by for caffeine. He was looking for… _hope_ …a sense of calm…and, if he was really honest with himself, a reminder of **her.**

Frank made his way to the news stand in the corner and scanned the stacks of newspapers. Bingo. The New York Bulletin. He thumbed through yesterday’s addition and the torn-up hunk of ice and steel that he suspected was his heart seemed to break a little more. No articles by Karen Page. Not in yesterday’s publication. _Damnit_. Why did it seem like her work only appeared every once in a while, now?

In that moment the thought of Karen hit Frank like a punch in the gut. A punch that brought back memories more painful than his newest nightmare of that poor kid wrenched from the cartel. He could hear his voice saying “ _I don’t want it”_ over and over again. He could see the hurt flash like lightning in Karen’s ocean blue eyes. He’d wanted so badly to tell her the truth. To tell her he **needed** her _safe_ and _alive_ …and the only way to do that was to ask her to walk away. “ _I’ve got to walk out of here and you can’t do it with me.”_ He’d felt like he was choking on every word he’d uttered in that moment, but it had to be done. He couldn’t wear the mantle of the Punisher and keep Karen safe. He had to keep his distance.

Still…being able to read her writing in the Bulletin gave Frank a sense of comfort. Partly because it gave him a feeling of control. He could make sure Karen didn’t get into too much trouble as long as he knew who she was investigating. Yet, another part of him knew that reading her words made him feel less lonely. Her writing had matured and grown since her first publication and it was almost like he could hear her talking to him. It was almost like she was...

_Stop it you idiot. She’s not here for a good reason._

Frank shook his head to bring him back to the present. It was 1am on January first. He was cold, alone, and had dried blood on his boots. He was not exactly the ideal New Year’s Eve date, and Karen was probably off somewhere with her lawyer pals having a good time. It was better that way.

Feeling sorry for himself, Frank stalked out of the bodega and began his trek home.

* * *

A long drive home and quick shower later, Frank found himself lying on his bed staring up at the ceiling. Images of that poor boy’s face flashed before him; the blood; the cries of terror. Last night played like a goddamn movie reel in his head, and Frank couldn’t- he just couldn’t – sleep. He needed to read Karen’s words now more than ever. Needed to hear the one voice that told him he was good.

_All of them. They think you’re a monster, but I know that you’re not. You’re NOT!_

Turning on his small bedside lamp, Frank let his fingers brush over the picture of Maria and his babies. He gently whispered _good night_ as his fingers grasped for the stack of newspaper clippings he’d tucked beside the picture. Karen may be too busy on New Year’s Eve to write one thousand words, but…

_Don’t get bitter jackass. She should be out having fun. She – she deserves it more than anybody else._

_…_ he could read over one of his favorite pieces of her writing _._

The article he’d torn from that particular addition of the Bulletin was dog-eared and worn after the hundred times he’d read it. The wear and tear made the words that much more familiar to him. Karen Page’s first ever piece in the Bulletin was a source of calm for Frank.

**What is it, to be a hero? Look in the mirror and you’ll know…**

Reading those familiar words, Frank was taken back to the first time he’d seen her byline.

_He sat in the corner booth of a diner similar to the one he’d taken her to a few nights earlier with a black cup of coffee in hand. The smell of the gasoline he’d used to turn every last memory, every inch of his house, to ash still lingered on his fingertips. He felt empty, lifeless, alone. He had to do something to distract himself from…well…himself._

_Trigger finger twitching, Frank grabbed the section of the newspaper he’d stuffed in his coat pocket. He could feel the thin scrap tucked safely beside that only picture he took out of the house. The only two things that didn’t go up in smoke. Unfolding the paper, Frank took a slow breath. He’d told himself he couldn’t be certain he’d actually read the byline correctly; he had been in a hurry to char every last object that made him feel human._

_Looking down, Frank’s stomach flipped. Nope. He hadn’t been seeing things. There, in black and white, was the name Karen Page._

**You’re a New Yorker. You’re a hero.**

_Frank put his coffee down and read the article twice over. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was talking to him. Yeah, two nights ago she’d been all fire and fury yelling that he was dead to her…but…then there’d been the rooftop._

_Standing there in the cold, offering cover fire for Red as he fought whatever the hell ninja cult had been poking into the Blacksmith’s heroin deals, Frank had wished he could see Karen one more time. Just to say, ‘thank you ma’am; you helped me remember.’ Just to say, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then, as if they were in some sort of cheesy romcom, he’d looked down to see Karen-stubborn-as-hell-Page standing there on the street behind the police barricade. The police were focused on Red and his crazy shit, but Karen seemed to sense he was watching her. She looked up at Frank with those big eyes, and for a moment he hoped she understood. He wasn’t there because he’d caught word on his stolen police scanner that the Daredevil was saving hostages. He was there because Daredevil was Red. Red was Matt Murdock…And even if Murdock was a naïve hypocrite, he was important to Karen. Covering his ass was the least Frank could do to say thank you. He hoped she understood that and maybe she did. He wouldn’t put it past that woman to send him a message this way._

_Frank took another sip of coffee and shook his head. It was stupid of him to hope like that especially after the hell he’d put Karen Page through. Still…her printed words gave him hope that there could be something after he figured out what happened to his family. It wasn’t much, but the glimmer of hope gave him the motivation to walk out of the diner and head to one of the nearby construction sites looking for work. He’d need work after…whatever he was going to do was finished._

**This is Hell’s Kitchen. Welcome home.**

Frank sighed and let his thumb trail over the well-worn paper. Usually, reading this particular piece of Karen’s work soothed him enough to go to sleep. Tonight was a different story. 

Maybe, Frank mused, he was on edge because things weren’t going as planned. The plan had been simple: Keep tabs on Karen by following whatever Kitchen scum she wrote about for the Bulletin. Ever since that morning at the diner, Frank had continued to follow Karen’s stories. Hell, he’d even emailed David Lieberman when he was on the road guarding Amy and asked the spook to send him Karen’s articles from the Bulletin’s website. David always came through with Karen’s eight hundred to two-thousand words and a flippant email:

_“Here’s the latest on your girlfriend. Any chance you’ll invite me to the wedding.”_

His friend always followed these quips with a gentle question:

_“You ok? You know you can always come over for dinner. Sarah and the kids miss you. I kind of do too.”_

Even after Frank put Amy on that bus and came back to New York, his reply to David never changed:

_“Thanks spook. Stay safe.”_

Keep the tabs on the Lieberman family through email. Keep tabs on Karen through the Bulletin. Don’t get them involved in your shit even you miss them as badly as you miss your wife and kids. Keep tabs. Keep safe. That was Frank’s plan.

Now, all of the sudden, Karen had gone silent and it was _killing_ Frank. He was a nervous wreck. What happened while he was off with the kid? Why wasn’t Karen writing? Frank looked down at the newspaper in his hands.

“Damnit Karen,” he whispered, “Where are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is coming soon! Thanks to those who’ve read so far :)


	2. Freelancer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karen may have an opportunity to write again. It could mean a fresh start; however, if a certain vigilante is involved in her story, it could also mean a lot of trouble.

_Meanwhile, as Frank was searching for a certain reporter’s name in the paper…_

“5…4…3…”

Karen leaned against the balcony railing momentarily blinded by the glare from her cell phone. She felt her heart skip a beat as she scrolled through her emails and saw Mitchell Ellison’s name appear. He’d sent a reply at 8pm. Just like him to be at the office late on New Year’s Eve.

“2…1…”

Index finger shaking, she opened the email.

_“Karen – The piece on that new ramen place is crap. I don’t direct that at you; you made sipping miso broth sound exciting. I can’t believe Robbie in Lifestyle suggested we need a freelancer to cover a restaurant that’s only going to last two months. The mom and pop joint on West 51 st serves better noodles and they’re from Kyoto. Ok, rant over. Can you meet me tomorrow to talk? Lunch at the usual spot. - Ellison”_

Karen finally exhaled. She’d tried her best on the restaurant piece, but Ellison was right: It was crap because it wasn’t authentic. The part of her that jumps to catastrophizing worried Ellison’s email would be a goodbye. Another part of her hoped, after sending the Bulletin various pieces, this was part of the healing process for her relationship with the gruff editor. 

“Happy New Year!”

Karen read the email again. Getting free ramen had been nice – Matt and Foggy both loved not having to shell out money for lunch - but she HATED freelancing on such a fluff piece. Every slurp of noodle had reminded Karen how much she missed reporting real news; how much she missed feeling like she made a difference. It was great to be back with Foggy and Matt, but they were still hesitant to accept her actively investigating cases. She **needed** something more…something to help distract her from thoughts of Fra –

“Karen! What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

Karen turned to see Foggy, dressed to the nines in a new suit and silver tie, step outside. He was grinning from ear to ear and, if the light smudge of ruby red lipstick at the corner of his mouth was any indication, Marci approved of his outfit. He walked over to Karen and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. 

“You’re going to miss the show if you’re not careful,” he scolded in mock sternness.

It took a second for his comment to register and Karen momentarily wondered if the one glass of red wine she’d forced down had dulled her senses. Looking in the direction of Foggy’s gaze, Karen realized fireworks were bursting over the New York skyline. It was beautiful.

_I wonder if he’s watching this right – STOP it Karen. STOP entertaining those thoughts._

She looked sideways at Foggy who was watching her with curiosity. “Shit. You’re right Foggy. I – I was distracted by an email from Mitchell Ellison.” Karen worked to hold back her smile. “He wants to meet me tomorrow to talk about some of the freelance work I’ve been sending him.”

Foggy huffed and rolled his eyes. “You _would_ worry about work on New Year’s Day. Even Matt’s not that bad.” His blue eyes softened as his face grew serious. “I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t worried Ellison is going to try and steal you away from the us. Call me selfish, but your freelance work for the Bulletin and all those other papers and magazines has benefited me. I haven’t had to pay for lunch or coffee since we became Nelson, Murdock, & Page. Plus, Marci loved the free makeup samples _Vogue_ sent you.”

Karen couldn’t help but laugh. “Getting your girlfriend a stocking stuffer was the least I could do.”

Foggy was quiet for a moment. “I’d hate to see you leave NMP – er I guess it would be NM – especially since we’re just building a client base that sometimes pays with actual cash. Still…I _know_ you miss reporting for the Bulletin.” The sincerity of his expression was illuminated by the last, lingering firework.

Karen looked away. “I do miss it,” she murmured. “I miss it a lot, but going back could be… **_complicated_**.”

“What happened at the Bulletin was NOT your fault.” Foggy’s voice was firm. “Poindexter was a lunatic and so is Wilson Fisk.”

Karen swallowed as the memory of her coworkers screaming in terror flashed in her mind’s eye. She didn’t want to think about that day; it would only lead to nightmares and she had plenty of nightmares. She shook her head to free herself from the horrible memory. “I know it wasn’t my fault Foggy.” After a pause, “That’s not the only reason I’m hesitant to write full-time…”

Foggy turned towards her. “What is it then? If reporting makes you happy, why hold yourself back?”

Karen opened her mouth to answer and then closed it. Could she really trust Foggy with the truth? Could she tell him reporting on Hell’s Kitchen was her last connection to –

“You guys!” Come inside!” Marci stood at the sliding glass door sparking in a silver dress. “You two are letting the cold air in.”

Foggy let out a dramatic sigh, but smiled broadly at Marci as he and Karen made their way back into her penthouse. Karen cringed as she looked around at the clusters of people milling around Marci’s sofa and bar. There were too many people for her comfort. Being ambushed by a bomber at the Royal Hospitality; a gunman walking into the Bulletin; being held hostage…Karen had one too many experiences that made her anxious in crowds. She wondered if Frank felt that way after everything he’d been through. She wondered if the hordes of New Year’s Eve partyers caused him to squirm. She –

_Karen, he’s not yours to worry about._

Thankfully, Marci interrupted Karen’s thoughts. “Karen,” she cooed, “You need to stop thinking about work or _whatever_ it is you’re doing on your phone. You look gorgeous in that dress! Use it to your advantage.” She gestured in the direction of two tall, good looking guys in expensive suits. Karen bit her lip and tried to smile as Marci tugged at the side of the navy blue sheath dress she’d insisted Karen barrow for the evening.

Foggy had warned her that Marci somehow equated hosting a New Year’s Eve party with playing matchmaker. From the moment Karen arrived at the swank uptown penthouse, Marci had made sure to personally introduce her to every one of her single male co-workers. There was Marcus, Harrison, and Dean or Devon – _or maybe it was Doug_ – all too handsome and too self-important. The only reason Karen didn’t turn around and bolt for the door was the fact that she wanted to make an effort for Foggy’s sake. When Marci realized Karen wasn’t warming up to her fellow lawyers, she even tried to push Matt in Karen’s direction. Rekindling that old flame was the LAST thing Karen wanted. Thankfully, a few of Marci’s sorority sisters from Columbia zoned in on Matt’s devilish smile and Karen was able to escape to the balcony. Sadly, she was now back inside like a gazelle in the lion’s den when all she really wanted to do was go home and put on sweatpants.

“Ooooh. Looks like Doug is making his way over,” Marci said with a wink. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”

Karen felt her stomach drop…then suddenly Matt was by her side. Although neither of them was interested in Marci’s matchmaking scheme, Matt wouldn’t leave Karen to fend for herself. The fact Karen accepted his help was a sign their friendship was on the mend.

“Want to grab another plate of sushi?” Matt asked. 

Karen nodded, watching out of the corner of her eye as Doug – Dean – _no Doug_ – retreated to the other side of the living room. “Sure,” she said. 

Guiding Matt by the arm to the buffet table, Karen helped him make a plate. It felt like old times for a second but she knew better. She sensed a lecture coming the minute Matt pushed his plate aside.

“So…you’ve been doing more freelance work for Mitchell Ellison?” he murmured in a concerned voice.

Karen sighed. “Uhhh. Yeah. Yes, I’ve been freelancing for a couple different publications. Not a lot has gotten picked up, but Ellison wants to meet to talk about my work.”

Matt frowned. “Foggy and I don’t need free lunches Karen. We need you. It’s bad enough you got your Private Investigator’s license and are doing more research for our cases. Writing crime reels for the Bulletin is just asking for trouble.”

Karen felt herself bristling. Of course Matt wanted to dictate how she managed her life.

“I’m asking for trouble?” she hissed in a whisper, “That’s _rich_ coming from you considering your _other_ line of work.”

Matt backed away. He was obviously wounded by the resentment in Karen’s tone.

Karen took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m feeling pretty worn out. I shouldn’t snap at you Matt. I’ll be going home.” She turned and marched towards the door.

“Karen! Wait!” Matt called after her. “Why is writing for the Bulletin so important to you?”

Karen didn’t answer. The fact Matt didn’t follow her was a sign he was learning to respect her boundaries.

Karen spent the taxi ride home fuming. Every lecture, every scolding Matt had ever given her seemed to play on repeat in her mind.

_I almost had him! I almost had Fisk and I left to come here and save you!_

Matt always worried Karen wasn’t capable enough because he **needed** her to be a damsel in distress. His behavior was not new and it was honestly more annoying than hurtful. Karen admitted it was simply easy to blame her bad mood on him. Matt’s need to feel in control made him the perfect target for her anger.

It wasn’t until Karen walked into her apartment and let her gaze fall to the barren flower pot on her windowsill that the anger gave way to a loneliness Matt had no part it. Studying the clay pot, Karen finally allowed herself to truthfully answered his question: The reason writing for the Bulletin was so important to her was because – besides giving her a sense of purpose – it kept her close to the one person who’d never doubted her. The one person whose words seemed to haunt her.

**You sit here and you’re all confused about this thing, but you have everything.**

God, she’d tried so hard to keep those damn white roses alive.

**So hold on to it. Use two hands and never let go. You got it?**

Frank Castle. Karen tried – _I really did try_ – to be furious with him. Sometimes it worked, but the anger was just masking the lonely, longing, ache she felt for Frank. He was the one person who’d seen her for who she truly was even if she’d been too scared to share her past with him.

**You’re still all heart huh?**

Yes, she was still all heart and that heart thrived on the little bits and pieces of crime news Frank left in his wake as the Punisher. Even before the hospital, ever since they’d pressed their forehead together in that elevator, the news was Karen’s only way of knowing Frank was alive.

**Take care.**

She’d gone to the hospital on a suicide mission – she knew it – to ask Frank to love something other than war. He’d done exactly what she expected, telling her she was crazy to give up everything for him. His words had stung…yet…Karen thought the look he’d given her before she set off that fire alarm meant something. The piercing, tearful stare that saw straight through Karen. A stare that seemed almost like a promise.

**I will come for you.**

Part of her felt broken as she walked, barefoot and all, away from the hospital. Another part of her had hoped Frank would come to her once the young girl was safe. She’d sat at her desk at NMP and hoped for a sign from Frank; instead, there was radio silence.

**Get away from me. Get away from this thing.**

_“He made his choice,”_ Karen told herself over and over again. Still, she couldn’t help but think of every conversation, ever gesture, every smile, and believe it meant something.

**I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you came here. You sat with me.**

Karen sunk on to her couch and looked at her phone. She would meet Ellison tomorrow. She would plead her case to write again. To write for Frank…and for herself.

**Look I know you, alright. You’re brave. You’re strong. But you are so goddamn stubborn!**

Turning her head to look out the window, Karen felt a flicker of hope. “Yes, I am stubborn Frank. Yes, I am.”

* * *

  
Walking towards the corner of 34th and 7th Ave, Karen took a deep breath as she tried to sort through her emotions. Mitchell Ellison was the only person besides Frank Castle who truly trusted her instincts. On Ben Urich’s recommendation alone, the editor had allowed Karen to look for the truth in Frank’s story. The fact he’d allowed some no name friend of the deceased reporter to push the idea that there was more to Frank than just a violent murderer proved Ellison had faith. 

Besides giving her a job, Ellison had offered a dry but welcome sense of empathy as Karen wrestled with her feelings for the vigilante. He’d witnessed Karen’s heartbreak when she thought Frank had died in that explosion on the pier. He’d seen her heart crack again when Frank officially came back from the dead. He’d held his tongue and declined to pressure her when hundreds of people wanted an answer as to how she’d become the Punisher’s human shield and lived to tell the tale. Ellison had trusted Karen, yet she’d lied to him _repeatedly_. She’d lied about knowing Daredevil. Lied about her interactions with Frank. The man wasn’t stupid. He knew something was up. It was only a matter of time before he decided her lies got in the way of her reporting the truth.

Karen squared her shoulders making her way to the small hot dog stand at the corner. Ellison was already in line. _“Got to be there at 11:30 sharp! Before all the idiot tourists block the sidewalk.”_ He wore his typical tweed jacket and a scowl that Karen had come to understand signified he was deep in thought. The only sign he _may_ be pleased to see her was the slight raise of his eyebrow and a curt nod.

“Glad you made it,” Ellison muttered as Karen stepped up beside him. “I wondered if you’d be too hung over to join me, but then I remembered you’re workaholic too.”

Karen huffed a laugh. “Come on Ellison. You know my social life isn’t that riveting.”

The reporter glanced at Karen with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. “You’ll regret that attitude when you’re pushing 50 and have the beginnings of arthritis.” He gave his usual order and Karen said she’d take the same.

“Here, let me get it.”Karen began fishing for her wallet.

“No,” Ellison said firmly. “This is on me. Don’t argue.”

Grabbing their food, Karen followed Ellison to a nearby bench. It was time to find out if he’d forgiven her.

“I know you didn’t ask me here to keep you company,” Karen began. “What do I need to do about that ramen piece?”

Ellison rolled his eyes. “Delete it from your laptop.”

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, Ellison couldn’t quite meet Karen’s eye. “Look Karen…two nights ago someone hit a syndicate of the Mexican cartel. Hit them pretty hard. Some of their people were using a basement laundry room in an apartment building in Harlem to store very large amounts of heroin prior to sale. Needless to say, those scum are now six feet under and that laundry room looks like a demolition site.”

Karen felt her stomach twist into a knot. There was only **_one_** person who could have hit the cartel that hard.

“I have Andy reporting the story,” Ellison continued, “He’s done more political pieces like the stuff on Senator Ori following your fun time at the Royal Hospitality, but he’ll do alright. The facts are laid out for him. Five cartel members dead; two of which were supposedly pretty high up in the ranks here in New York. Gunshot wounds. No real evidence as to who caught them, but Detective Mahoney alluded to the Punisher. It’s his brand of vigilante justice.”

The knot in Karen’s stomach seized up. Frank was alive…hopefully.

“Ellison, if you’re asking me for information, I don’t have any. I haven’t seen Fra – the Punisher in a while.”

Ellison finally looked at her. “I didn’t ask you here as a source Karen.”

Her eyes widened. “They why?”

“The cartel his is becoming old news. People won’t really care if it was the Punisher or Daredevil or some rival group of thugs that took out those five men,” Ellison stated matter-of-factly. “That’s why I’m ok with Andy pushing this piece of soon-to-be-ancient-history to print.”

Karen nodded, slowly realizing there was something else to the story.

“The piece of news that _is_ interesting is that **_whoever_** ,” Ellison gestured in air quotes, “laid into the cartel saved the life of the 13-year-old kid named Jesse Vazquez-Gonzalez. His father, Jose Gonzalez, was Number Two in the cartel’s chain of command here in the city. The person who killed Gonzalez saved the kid from being beaten to death with a tire iron. Supposedly called 911 to get the boy some help.”

Karen’s breath hitched. A tire iron. A 13-year-old. It brought back memories of her brother. She wondered what memories it brought up for Frank.

Out loud she murmured, “I can’t imagine what that poor boy went through.”

Ellison nodded. “The fact someone could unleash such violence on the cartel but save the heir to the throne means something. I don’t know if it means something to the boy or to the vigilante who saved him; either way there’s a story to be told. It won’t be front page with Andy’s facts, but it will grab at people’s hearts.”

A shiver ran down Karen’s spine as she allowed herself to feel the tug, the pull, of a story. To know there was a mystery laying before her like puzzle pieces and the right words could bring everything together.

“You want me to write about the boy?” she whispered.

Ellison nodded. “I’m a father Karen. That boy could’ve been my own son in another life. You’re the only person I trust to write that kind of story.”

Karen felt tears welling in her eyes. “You mean that?”

Ellison swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing as struggled to say what he felt. “Firing you was the stupidest decision I’ve made in a long time. I can’t hire you back full-time right now, but I can pay you pretty well to freelance.”

Karen nodded. “Ok. Yes, I’ll do it.”

Ellison let out a sigh of relief. “Ok. Now that I’m done being all sentimental: I need whatever you’ve got by next Wednesday. Mahoney will probably know where the kid is since he’s the lead detective looking into the whole fiasco.”

“You’ve got it,” Karen said as they both stood up. She turned, ready to head to the 15th precinct and interrogate Brett Mahoney.

“Karen,” Ellison grabbed her arm. This time he didn’t try to hide his concern. “I know you haven’t seen _the Punisher_ in a while, but…have you seen _Frank Castle_?”

Karen hesitated - an image of Frank holding her hand as they sat together in the hospital running through her mind.

She shrugged. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

Ellison’s brow furrowed. “Just be careful.”

Karen squeezed his hand. “I’ll have a thousand words for you soon.”

She left the bench ready to find Jesse Vazquez-Gonzalez…and maybe run into Frank Castle.


	3. A Story About an Angel of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karen hears a tale about Frank, as seen through the eyes of the young boy. A boy who may lead them back together.
> 
> *Trigger warning: There are non-graphic descriptions of physical abuse related to the boy in the story and Karen’s own experiences. Please read with care.*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who’ve read my first work, you’ll notice some familiar characters appearing in this chapter. 
> 
> It is impossible to see the Angel unless you first have a notion of it. - James Hillman

“Karen you cannot be serious!” Brett Mahoney stood in the lobby of the 15th Precinct with his mouth wide open. “You really believe I’m going to give you ANY information on that cartel hit? There are at least twenty of their people scattered between Hell’s Kitchen and Harlem demanding vengeance! Are you here to poke around for Nelson and Murdock, or are you just trying to find a way to get yourself killed?”

Karen gave her best confident smile in the wake of Brett’s scolding. She’d known getting information from the detective wouldn’t be easy…especially given the fact **she** had held information from him plenty of times.

“It’s _Nelson, Murdock, and Page_ now; I have my Private Investigator’s license.” She paused to allow Brett to role his eyes. “This isn’t for the firm though. I’m here on behalf of the Bulletin. I’m working on an article about the hit”

Brett snorted in exasperation. “Like _that_ makes me feel any better about you nosing around in the cartel’s business. I’ve already released a press statement on the incident. Do like everybody else and read about it on Google.”

Karen stepped forward just enough to see Brett squirm. He knew she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “What about the boy, Brett? Jesse Vasquez-Gonzalez?”

Brett sighed. “Of course the Bulletin would send **you** to try and get information out of the kid.”

“Jesse was there Brett. He lived through that nightmare. He deserves to tell his story.”

Brett paused for a moment, thinking. “Come here,” he motioned for Karen to follow him. Karen gave a silent cry of victory. She knew Brett well enough to know she was winning him over.

Walking into the detective’s office, Karen watched Brett stalk to his desk and flop down in his chair. He gestured for Karen to sit. After a tense moment of silence, Brett spoke.

“Jesse Vasquez-Gonzalez was almost beaten to death with a tire iron. Hi father, Jose Gonzalez, has been wrapped up in some drug deals that aren’t just within the cartel. Supposedly, he walked in on his father wrapping up a large purchase of heroin fro somebody...maybe the Italians or the Irish. We aren’t sure who. Point is the dad got mad and went ballistic on the poor kid.”

Karen felt her stomach twist. A tire iron. A boy…a boy just like Kevin. _Kevin. Kevin crying as Todd Neiman struck him with a tire iron._

“The boy’s resting at Metro General. Child Protective Services has a social worker checking in on him since his mom works 14-hour days. It can’t be too exciting for the kid…I’m sure he’d rather have someone like you visit him than see another police officer or a CPS worker.”

Karen looked down. “This must be hard for Jesse. My brother had to stay in the hospital once.” – _because our father pushed him down the stairs and he broke his arm_ came her unbidden thought – “He was lonely.” The words felt like sandpaper in her throat. _Kevin. A boy. Scared and lonely._

**I’m not lonely Karen.**

**  
** Frank’s words ricochet around in her mind.

 _Then why did you save the boy?_ She wanted to scream.

She shook her head, willing herself to focus. Karen just wanted Jesse to know he wasn’t alone. _Kevin_ would have wanted her to check in on him.

She looked up to see Brett studying her face. He shifted uncomfortably. “Look Karen, I know you’ll be empathetic towards the kid. I’m just worried you’re too…” he paused momentarily. 

“Worried I’m too what?” Karen raised an eyebrow.

“Too **_emotionally involved_** in this mess. Too many emotions can lead to stupid mistakes. Stupid mistakes can get you killed.”

Karen was taken back. “W-Why are you saying I’m emotionally involved?”

Brett huffed. “Come on Karen. Let’s be **_real_**. You’ve obviously done your research on this shit show. You know the Punisher saved Jesse.”

Karen felt a prickling heat begin to bloom at her sternum and travel up her neck. “I don’t understand. What does the Punisher have to do with - ?”

“You don’t understand?” Brett cut her off. “You really don’t understand that it is suspicious _as hell_ that EVERY TIME the Punisher makes a move – somehow, someway, at some point – YOU end up involved in the situation. Think about his trial, the hotel, the hospital and tell me…What don’t you understand?”

Karen tried to slow her breathing so her voice didn’t shake. “I haven’t seen Frank Castle in months. This has NOTHING to do with him.”

Brett shook his head. “Damn. Well, at least your answer is consistent.”

Karen didn’t have to ask what he meant. Every time something happened with Frank, she’d sworn up and down she became involved by coincidence. It was a lie and Brett knew it. He just didn’t have the proof to call her out on it.

She stood up. “Thank you for the information Brett. I’d better be going.”

“Karen,” Brett called after her, “Jesse still has some powerful family members out there. Just…be careful.”

Karen nodded as she walked towards the door. “I can take care of myself.”

* * *

  
An hour later, Karen found herself walking down the hall of Metro General’s Children’s Ward. They area was empty except for a few nurses on the holiday shift. Karen felt her heart break a little, thinking of the kids alone in the hospital for the holidays. The older nurse in front of her was NOT pleased to have another visitor bother her charge. Karen had dropped Brett’s name at the front desk and showed her PI’s license, so the staff assumed she was working directly with Mahoney. Karen didn’t correct them on that fact.

“He’s over here in 312B. You have to be out by 5pm,” the nurse grumbled.

Karen gave a soft thank you to which the nurse did not respond. Sighing, Karen turned and walked into the room. Her heart wasn’t ready for what she saw: Sitting, knees tucked underneath his chin, was a thin boy with bruises covering his right arm. Karen hated to imagine how far the bruises traveled up his torso though she sadly suspected they formed a perfect trail to the black and blue marks on the boy’s face. For a moment, Karen flashed back to finding a 12-year-old Kevin hiding in the closet. She’d left him home alone to go to the mall. She’d thought her trip was fairly quick, but their father, an empty bottle of Jim Bean, and a foul mood made it home to her brother before she did.

Karen didn’t realize she was staring until the boy looked at her through one swollen eye and asked, “Are you one of the social workers? The nurse keeps saying the social workers are going to come back and talk to me.”

“No,” Karen shook her head as she pulled out her ID. “My name is Karen Page and I…I write for a newspaper called the Bulletin.” She paused, unsure of how to continue. “Jesse, I – I heard about what happened to you. I wanted to come and listen to your story. I thought you might need someone to talk to.” _She sure as hell wished she’d had someone to confide in the first time her father slapped her across the face._

Jesse continued to look at her, unsure if she was trustworthy.

“I brought you a little something,” Karen said as she pulled a Spiderman comic book out of her purse. “I thought you might be a little bored in here. My brother used to love reading comics when he was stuck in bed.” She was rewarded with a genuine smile.

“I love Spiderman!” Jesse exclaimed. “I’ve been so bored just watching TV in here. My mom hasn’t been able to bring me any of my books.”

_God he’s so much like Kevin._

“It’s yours,” Karen whispered handing him the comic. She took a moment to collect her emotions before asking, “So…you like to read?”

Jesse nodded. “Yeah. I love reading and writing. My abuela always read to me before bed when she was alive. She’d read in Spanish and I’d explain the story in English as I got older.”

Karen smiled. “Your grandma must have been really proud of you.”

“Yeah. She always told me I was creative. Creative writing is my favorite class in school. Though I’m kind of interested in the school newspaper too. Real world stuff used to be boring, but I think it’s pretty cool now.”

“I get it,” Karen nodded, “I loved reading sci-fi and mysteries as a kid. I still do, but learning about real-world events can be fun too. I got into it more in high school.”

Jesse looked up at her with a curious expression. “You’re a journalist. So…you write about people’s experiences?”

Karen nodded, taking his question as an invitation to move closer to the bed. “Yeah. I try to listen to people’s stories and share them.”

“A lot of journalists and other people have been coming to see me. They just want to know what my dad was like, but they don’t really care about what happened to me.” His voice sounded too weary for someone who was only 13-years-old.

Karen swallowed. “Well Jesse, I…I don’t want to talk about your dad. I…I want to know YOUR story. How you feel about what happened.”

Jesse looked down. “I’ve told people. My mom, the police, the social workers. Nobody believes my story though.”

Karen felt a sudden desire to give the boy a hug; instead, she asked, “What don’t they believe?”

Jesse looked up at her. “That I saw the Punisher cry.”

Karen felt her heart skip a beat. After a pause she said, “I’d like to hear your story if you feel ok telling me. I’d like to make up my mind myself.”

Karen sat back to listen as Jesse told his version of that night. She figured it may bring up some traumatic memories of her own family…but she wasn’t prepared for the word that broke her heart...

**Frankie**

*******

_Jesse Vasquez-Gonzalez understood that words hold a certain kind of magic. One by one they may feel meaningless, but string a few words together and then…Jesse had the power to escape. To go somewhere far, far away from his normal life._

_As a child, his abuela’s words became stories of magic and mystery. She told him fairy tales of the Chupacabra from her home in Mexico; read him books like Harry Potter and comics like Spiderman; and had him translate articles from her favorite gossip magazines. Jesse loved the words his abuela shared because it gave him a way to escape the reality of his home. The reality of his mother always worrying about finances. The reality of his father’s screams and curses._

_Jesse would imagine the hero’s from his books and comics coming to life to take him away. Then, on December 30 th, it actually happened._

_It was cold as Jesse walked down the stairs to the laundry room in the basement of his apartment building. He’d promised his mother he would wash the dirty clothes while she was at work. She did enough cleaning at the Royal Hospitality. Jesse really did want to help her…he just got so busy reading he’d forgotten about the clothes until late that night._

_When his feet hit the last step leading into the laundry room, Jesse suddenly knew that dirty clothes were the least of his problems. His first clue something was wrong, was the fact that one washing machine had been pulled away from the wall to reveal a hastily cut hole. Jesse could make out large, thick, rectangular shaped packages wrapped with duct tape arranged neatly inside the hidden space. His second clue something was wrong was seeing his father, two tios, and two of their friends standing in a semicircle around a tall, gaunt, white man with sandy colored hair. His tios had their hands on their semi-automatics…NOT a good sign at all. His father’s back was turned, but Jesse could hear Jose Gonzalez complaining as he pulled a large wad of cash from his pocket._

_“Bullshit! We never had to deal with oversight fees when your hermano Russo was doing business with us.”_

_The tall man with sandy colored hair flinched at the name. “Billy Russo had no control over how your product gets moved into the country. The Coast Guard is getting a lot pickier during their inspections.”_

_Jesse heard his father snort. “Tell Wilson Fisk that one day I want to see where my money actually goes.”_

_The tall man frowned. “You’re always welcome to stop by Mario’s yourself.”_

_Jose Gonzalez laughed, “You’re a funny man Todd Less. Come to Mario’s to pick up the bricks myself! I wouldn’t step one foot in the Daredevil’s neighborhood even if Fisk was paying me to be there.”_

_The man named Todd Less shrugged. “Well then, I guess this is the price you pay for doing business.”_

_Jesse saw his father’s back stiffen. “I guess so. We will see you next month Mr. Less.” Jesse knew that tone well: It meant get the hell out. The man must have understood because he gave a curt nod and walked out of the emergency exit to his right._

_“Fucking gringo!” Jose spat as the door closed._

_Jesse sucked in a breath as he realized he’d just seen something he shouldn’t have seen. He backed up slowly forgetting he’d placed the laundry basket down…and felt himself fall backwards on the stairs._

_WHOMP_

_“What was that?” his tio Nico called._

_There were footsteps coming towards the stairs. The next thing Jesse knew, his father was grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “You idiot! I told you NOT to come down here after dinner! Don’t you listen?”_

_Jesse whimpered, trying to explain that he hadn’t seen anything, but his father threw him to the floor._

_“Nico. Ruben. Guard the emergency exit,” Jose snapped. “Joshua and Marco, lock the door to the main floor. My son and I need to talk about what happens when he doesn’t listen.”_

_Jesse felt queasy…he knew his father wouldn’t be doing any talking. He looked up to see Jose grab a long, steel tire iron off the folding table in the corner. Jesse didn’t bother to shield his face. He knew that would only make things worse._

_The first blow stung, and the second, and the third, and finally Jesse lost count. He could feel his face growing wet, but he wasn’t sure if it was tears or blood that dampened his skin. He tried reciting one of his abuela’s favorite poems, but he found he couldn’t concentrate. His face was burning with pain and it was getting harder to see…Suddenly, the sharp sound of gunshots and screams washed over his ears. His tios crying…a loud roar…the sounds merged together making the pain in his head so intense Jesse felt like he may explode._

_“I’m sorry,” he wanted to say. “I’m sorry I messed up.” He tried to speak, but stopped as soon as he realized no one was beating his with a tire iron._

_Jesse struggled to open one eye. Through the pain, he made out his father cowering over him…yet Jose’s face was frozen in horror. His father held the tire iron out like a shield as he looked up at something…or someone._

_A low growl filled Jesse’s ears. “Get. Away. From. The. Boy.”_

_“I will kill you, you piece of shit,” Jesse heard Jose snarl. “Nico! Ni-”_

**_BAAMM_ **

_Jesse felt a scream escape his mouth as he watched bullet after bullet rip through his father’s sternum._

_At that moment, the whole room seemed to explode. Jesse covered his ears and crouched down gunshot after gunshot vibrated through the room. Someone was yelling. There was a feral wail. Jesse just stayed down and prayed for it all to be over…then…suddenly…silence._

_Jesse looked up again and this time he saw him: The Punisher. A tall man, like an Angel of Death, wearing all black save the white skull on his vest. Through the one eye that could open, Jesse made out bruises on the Punisher’s face and blood on his boots. The Punisher stood in the middle of the laundry room panting, looking down at bodies Jesse now realized were his tios. After a moment, the Punisher looked up from the carnage and walked towards Jesse._

_Jesse couldn’t stop his body from shaking and felt himself beginning to cry._

_“Shhh. Shhh. It’s alright,” came a gruff voice._

_Jesse choked back a sob as the Punisher approached him, surprised to see the man’s hands shaking. Looking up, Jesse could make out tears running down the Punisher’s face._

_“Shhh. I’ve got you,” the Punisher whispered as he kneeled on the floor and lifted Jesse into his arms._

_Jesse was surprised by the force of the man’s hug. He felt himself being rocked back and forth like a baby. It felt oddly comforting until Jesse realized that the Punisher’s whole body was shaking. He lifted his head to see the man, eyelids squeezed shut, crying in earnest. Hell’s Kitchen’s very own angel of death was sobbing._

_“It’s ok…It’s ok… Frankie. It’s ok Frankie.”_

_Jesse lifted a hand and brushed a tear from the Punisher’s face._

_***_

**Frankie. Frankie Junior.**

The name lodged itself in Karen’s heart like bullet threatening to rip her to shreds. Frank had been the one to save Jesse. Listening to the boy talk, all Karen could think about was her baby brother…and it hurt like hell. She couldn’t even imagine what had gone through Frank’s mind when he rescued the boy.

Karen felt her eyes prickling with tears. “Jesse, I…you…you were so brave that night. I know it can be hard to believe in yourself when you have a parent that says you’re bad, but…try not to listen to their voice. You are _good_. What you did for the…the Punisher…it was _good_ Jesse.”

She could tell the boy was studying her face; probably wondering why there were tears in her eyes. “Why do you think he was so sad?”

Karen blinked, unsure of how to answer. She thought about lying for a moment, but realized she couldn’t. Not after Jesse had shared so much with her. “He lost a boy like you once and...” Karen willed herself not to cry, “And it hurt him.”

Jesse nodded, seeming to need no other explanation. “Well… if you share my story, you can tell the Punisher that I’m alright. You can tell him I haven’t given up. I’m going to take care of my mom, and go to school, and do good things. You can tell him he helped me find an after.”

_An after._

Karen took in a sharp breath. This young boy was so positive even after all the shit he’d been through. He was so much like Kevin.

“I will tell him Jesse. I-”

“WHO the hell are YOU?!” Karen jumped as a deep voice shattered the quiet of the room.

Karen turned to see a man in his mid-forties with Jesse’s brown eyes and a faint scar on his left cheek glaring at her. “Are you another fucking journalist? I told those damned nurses no more reporters.

“Tio Angel,” Jesse said calmly – as though the man’s aggressive behavior was commonplace, “This is my friend Karen Page.”

The man continued to glare at Karen as if he wanted to throw her out of the window. The ferocity of his stare made the hair on the back of Karen’s neck stand. Brett’s warning echoed in her ears.

“Uh-Yes-I am Karen Page. I am a journalist and uh-I heard how Jesse likes to write. I wanted to come talk to him about it.” The lie sounded pathetic to her own ears.

“Get. Out.”

“Ok. I’ll be going.” Karen scrambled for her purse.

“But I want to hear your stories Karen,” Jesse whined. “How do you know the Punisher?”

Karen felt her stomach flip as a look of recognition passed over the man’s face. “Yes Miss Page, how do you know the Punisher?”

She refused to answer; instead, she looked at the boy and whispered, “Goodbye Jesse. Thank you for sharing your story with me.”

The man stepped aside as Karen made her way out of the room, but she felt his eye boring a hole into her back.

“Whatever you think of writing Miss Page…DON’T,” he called after her.

Karen stopped. She could feel a burning heat painting her cheeks. She turned and stared coldly at _Tio Angel._

“You can read my story in Thursday’s addition of the New York Bulletin.”

Spinning on her heels, Karen left the children’s ward without another word.

Had she stayed a moment longer, she would have seen Angel Vasquez pick up his cell phone and step into the hallway, out of earshot of his nephew. She would have heard him murmur to someone on the other line, “You were right, the blonde journalist showed up. Trying to mess with my sobrino. Screw Wilson Fisk and Todd Less. We will take care of her.”


End file.
